


generous

by Batik



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Fluff, Geno is not a professional hockey player, M/M, Night of Assists, PWP, Pittsburgh Penguins, bottom geno, but he still rocks that three-piece suit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-22 23:37:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19139143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/pseuds/Batik
Summary: Based on the prompt "The Pens' Night of Assists has a secret component for those in the know: a bachelor auction."For the record, I most definitely amnotone of those in the know and this is 99.9 percent fiction, with a 0.1 percent allowance for names/dates/places and weather. That's why it's called "fic" and not "biography". The guys depicted here are sonotthose guys, however much I adore them all!Much, much thanks —so. much. thanks.— toVelvetPawfor beta-ing and general hand-holding throughout this process.





	generous

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sixappleseeds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixappleseeds/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy it!

Sid slid his eyes over the rows of liquor bottles behind him before turning to double-check the rows of glasses and containers of olives, pearl onions and cut-up fruit now in front of him, making sure they were fully stocked and he was familiar with the bar’s workspace before he started his shift.

Of course, it was the caterer’s responsibility to make sure the bar was beyond functional ahead of the evening — Sid knew the company was being paid well enough precisely because it had a reputation for pulling off high-end events flawlessly — but the foundation’s Night of Assists was important to Mario and, by extension, the team and Sid. 

As one of the “celebrity” bartenders for the night, Sid wasn’t going to slouch off on this anymore than he did on the ice.

Plus, he was good at it. It hadn’t taken much more than his interest in learning new things and that first team party he’d hosted on his own at his first house to inspire him to study up on bartending. Really, he should have seen Colby’s early request for a “Buttery Nipple” as the warning it was before he had spent the rest of the night scouring his copy of “Bartending for Dummies” for recipes for every obscene-sounding drink his teammates could think to request.

By the time he had his first bartending gig at a Pens’ charity night, he already was two steps ahead of the crash course the caterer had offered to those needing it. He didn’t drink much or often — getting drunk on a regular basis didn’t really fit into his training plan — but most bar patrons were hard-put to come up with a drink Sid couldn’t assemble for them in short order.

The doors to the arena floor had opened a half-hour before the team was introduced and made its entrance, and the lines at the bar already were growing as Sid and Horny slid into place between the caterer’s crew members.

“Hey, I’m Sid,” Sid said, politely — if totally unnecessarily — to the first person in line. “What can I get for you?” 

The woman’s request for a Lemon Drop was an easy fill, as was the G-rated flirting that came with it. Her friend’s Cape Codder and the string of orders for daiquiris, martinis and assorted wines that followed as the line kept moving were similarly easy for Sid as he got into the flow of the evening.

“Hey, I’m Sid,” he said yet again, the words out of his mouth and smile in place before he’d fully managed to look up from where he’d been wiping down the bar top to make eye contact. “What can I …?”

Sid cleared his throat then to ease the slight choking noise that had killed the rest of his sentence as he finally focused on the man in front of him. And if he wasn’t a walking advertisement for the benefits of a nice suit.

“Um, sorry,” Sid managed to apologize as he resisted the urge to take off the flat cap they all had been required to wear and primp his fingers through his hair. “What can I get you?” 

“Hi, Sid!” the man replied with a wide, friendly grin. “I’m Evgeni. You can call Geno. Sangria, please.” 

That stopped Sid short and he took a moment to really look at … Geno, he’d said. And, well, yeah, OK.

“Coming right up,” Sid said with another appreciative glance at Geno before he turned to the mini-fridge under the bar and pulled out a pitcher. He poured the fruity mixture into a generously sized stemless wine glass, adding a splash of seltzer and garnishing the rim with an orange slice before sliding it across the bar.

“Thank you,” Geno said, his fingers brushing Sid’s as he moved to pick up his glass. “Look delicious.”

Considering that Geno was looking at Sid rather than at his glass, Sid wasn’t entirely sure if Geno was talking about the sangria or him. Either way, there was only one appropriate answer.

“Thank _you_ ,” he replied, his polite smile growing larger as Geno left a $20 on the bar for his drink and slipped a $50 into the tip jar before turning away with one last glance over his shoulder at Sid.

Sid watched Geno take his first few steps away, discreetly appreciating the scenery before he dragged his attention back to the next person in line and fought off an eye roll as he reached for a glass to hold her Orgasm.

∞ ∞ ∞

The line kept moving, steadily enough to prevent too long of a wait while allowing each person who stepped up to his bar a moment of Sid’s time and a bit of chit chat as he blended their drinks. It helped that it was a cash-only bar and the catering crew were largely responsible for keeping track of the money and keeping supplies stocks. Sid only had to smile, mix the drinks and give people enough facetime to leave them feeling generous toward the foundation.

“Hi, Sid! Sangria, please.” 

Sid wasn’t sure how someone that tall managed to sneak up on him, especially in such a public venue with a few thousand mostly shorter people milling about, but he was surprised to find himself face to face with Geno again. 

“I thought you already ordered a sangria,” Sid said, knowing full well that Geno had received the first sangria he’d poured that night. Though of course that had nothing to do with why he’d poured so few of them.

“I’m did,” Geno said. “Would like another. One with actual alcohol, if you have. Fruit punch was good, but ...”

“Oh,” Sid said, a bit flustered at this turn of events. “You want actual sangria with, um, actual alcohol?”

“Yes, please,” Geno said, leaning in casually with his elbows on the edge of the bar as his voice took on a more conspiratorial tone. “Everyone I’m talk to say you generous with pour, but my sangria just grape juice, orange juice, fizzy water.”

“Um, well, people who order sangria from me usually don’t actually _want_ alcohol,” Sid said. “I can, uh, give you a glass of one of Mario’s best wines, if you’d prefer.”

“No, thank,” Geno said. “Want sangria.”

And something about the way Geno said that gave Sid a sinking feeling in his gut.

“Can I ask … _why_ do you want a sangria?” Sid asked, the smile fading from his face for the first time in 2 hours.

“Not sure I understand,” Geno said, his confusion evident even without the words. “Just like sangria, Sid. What’s not to like about fruit and alcohol?”

“Oh, you just _like sangria_ ,” Sid said.

“Yes,” Geno said. “I drink other things, of course, but sangria best.”

And, well. In for a penny ...

Sid tapped his knuckles on the bar surface, turned to the mini-fridge and pulled out the pitcher of virgin sangria, which was still about half-full. He poured another glass and handed it to Geno.

“Isn’t this same fruit punch?” Geno asked, his brow furrowing.

“Yeah, it is,” Sid said. “Take it — it’s on the house — and go find Mario. Have him explain the sangria. If you still want the real thing after that, go see Patric.”

“OK, Sid,” Geno said. “Will go find Mario. Come back.” 

“Sure,” Sid said, turning back to the fridge and declining to watch Geno walk away this time. After that bit of confusion, he was tempted to pour the remaining contents of the pitcher down the drain and be prepared to write Mario a check at the end of the night. Instead, he dutifully returned the pitcher to its shelf and closed the door before turning back to the line.

“Hey, I’m Sid,” he said for the umpteenth time that night. “What can I get you?”

∞ ∞ ∞

“Bidding?” Geno repeated, trying not to sound completely aghast as he leaned away, an unbidden effort to put some distance between Mario and himself. His English comprehension was pretty good after a decade of living and working in Pittsburgh, but he wasn’t sure he was understanding Mario correctly. Because it sounded as if Mario Lemieux — _the_ Mario Lemieux — had just said he was auctioning off his players for a night. “Are you _pimp out_ team?”

“No, Geno. God, no,” Mario said quickly and adamantly, his easy composure faltering as he looked as aghast as Geno felt. “Not like that. Buying favors — sexual favors — is illegal. Whatever a select few — trusted — individuals bid only gets them a few hours spent with a player, perhaps on the ice or sightseeing. At no point is there any promise of sex.”

“Oh, OK,” Geno said, relaxing a bit at the assurance. “But … if sex not what you sell, then why so secret? I’m not know before, so assume others not know. Why not open bid to everyone here tonight?”

“We tried that one year,” Mario said, sighing before taking a sip of wine. “It took forever and didn’t bring in nearly the money. And a couple of the winning bidders wouldn’t have been allowed near the team, let alone been given one-on-one access, had we been able to run a background check first. Those invited to bid now generally have earned that right through their ongoing generosity to the foundation. They’re the high-rollers, so to speak. None of them bids more than they can afford simply to donate, and the foundation keeps all of the bids — winners and losers. More importantly, they’ve been checked out, so we don’t have to worry about the players’ safety.”

“Everyone on team available?” Geno asked, not really caring to know the answer when he already knew Sid was on the auction block. He had seen more than one post-game interview in which a nearly nude Horny left little to the imagination. That body definitely could fuel some fantasies, and Horny looked like he would be fun to hang out with for a few hours on a purely platonic level.

But who wouldn’t want to spend time with Sid — so earnest and friendly in his flat cap and crisp white dress shirt, not to mention the suspenders.

“Not everyone,” Mario acknowledged. “Mostly the older, single guys. We don’t ask the rookies to take on that kind of responsibility because I’m not going to put them in a position of feeling like they can’t say no. They tend to worry enough about earning their place on the roster as it is. And we don’t ask it of the married guys unless they volunteer. I’m not going to break up any relationships over a partner wondering what maybe happened that they’re just not being told about. Some have partners who are fine with it; others don’t.”

“So it _is_ for sex,” Geno said.

“No,” Mario said firmly, fixing Geno with a stare that surely had shaken more than a few of Mario’s opponents across the faceoff dot. “No one bids on sex in any way, shape or form. With Sid, for example, it’s your choice of ice time or an after-hours tour of the Carnegie Museum. Dumo cooks a meal — and usually has the bidder invite their partner or a few friends so Dumo’s wife can join them if she wants. Everyone tends to offer something different.”

“OK,” Geno said, taking the opportunity afforded by Mario taking a breath to take one of his own. “No hanky panky, just good time.” 

“Well, yes,” Mario said. “Though everyone involved _is_ an adult. If you enjoy your time together and it leads to something more, that’s entirely up to the two of you. Just like it would be if you were on a date. But that’s _not_ what you’re paying for, and it shouldn’t be the expectation.”

Geno nodded slowly as he swirled his glass and watched a cherry disrupt the spin of the orange slice in the juice’s vortex.

“And Sid?” 

“He’s not married, he’s old enough to handle himself, _he_ doesn’t have to worry about his roster spot and he has right of refusal on all bidders,” Mario said. “That’s where the sangria comes in. If he approves of a bidder, he’ll serve the virgin sangria — so the bidder has a clear head when he or she places a bid and also as a signal that the person is cleared to bid. If he doesn’t approve, the would-be bidder gets a very nice glass of wine and is sent on his or her way.”

“And the fact that I got _two_ sangrias from him?” Geno asked, eyebrows rising.

“Obviously, the first meant he thought you were approved for bidding and was OK with it,” Mario said. “The second, well, my guess would be that, once he realized you weren’t part of the bidding, he was willing to give you a chance anyway.”

Geno thought about that for a moment, weighing the idea that Sidney Crosby might be interested in spending time with him, however platonically. There really wasn’t much to consider.

“If I’m want to bid, how I’m do?” Geno asked.

∞ ∞ ∞

“Nathalie’s flight finally land OK?” Sid asked, sliding into the passenger seat of Mario’s sedan and fastening his seat belt.

“Yes,” Mario said. “She hates that the delay in Tempe meant she missed tonight, but she had a great time and she’s home safely, so that’s what matters.”

“I’m sure Austin was glad to see her,” Sid said, finally removing his flat cap and running his fingers through his hair to scratch at his scalp.

“She said he seemed to be and, as good as she is at events like tonight, we had plenty of people to fill in for her,” Mario said, starting the engine and flipping on the defrost.

“So, how’d it go?” Sid asked. “Tonight, I mean. Did we meet the fundraising goal?”

“Of course we did,” Mario said. “Another record year, thanks in no small part to the auction. Speaking of, I have you slated for 7 p.m. ice time with your winner tomorrow at Cranberry. The place will be closed down for the night and you’ll have the ice to yourselves.”

“Do I want to know who won?” Sid asked with a wry grin as he reached inside his coat to remove the boutonniere he’d forgotten to take off earlier. He carefully replaced the straight pin in the stem before tossing it in the cap now on his lap. 

“I think you’ll be pleased,” Mario said, shifting into drive as the windshields cleared and pulling out of the lot. 

“So it wasn’t Bob Nutting, eh?” 

“No, it wasn’t Bob,” Mario said, laughing at the idea of Pittsburgh’s most notorious tightwad winning high bid on anything. “I wouldn’t do that to you. But it never hurts to keep him in the pool. And, to be fair, he was willing to pay more for a chance at one-on-one time with you than he spends on half the contracts on the Pirates’ roster.”

“That’s not saying a lot,” Sid said with a light snort.

“True,” Mario agreed. “But it’s flattering in its own way.”

“After he lost last year’s bidding, he invited me out to PNC Park anyway, for ‘batting practice’,” Sid said. “I wasn’t sure if that was a euphemism or if he just wanted to see someone in the right colors hit one into the stands.”

“Probably both,” Mario said. “But you don’t have to worry about that this year. Mr. Malkin seemed excited to be playing hockey with you. Didn’t even make any not-so-veiled jokes about stick handling.” 

“Mr. Malkin?” Sid asked, puzzled that he didn’t know the name.

“Geno,” Mario supplied. “The tall one who kept ordering sangria.”

“Oh,” Sid said, his fingers fiddling with the stem of his boutonniere. “Geno. He never came back to the bar, so I wasn’t sure if he’d even come to see you or ... anything. … So, um, he checked out OK, eh? You did check on him, right?”

“Of course I did,” Mario said. “Seems to be a good guy. Single, has money — a lot of money — and seems to have come by it honestly. And he gives heavily to charities, particularly those benefiting children and animals.”

“Like the foundation,” Sid said.

“Yes, like the foundation,” Mario said. “I’m not sure why he wasn’t on our auction radar to begin with, but I’m glad he stumbled onto it.”

“I could do worse,” Sid said, going for casual as he ignored the twitch of his dick in his dress pants. “Hell, I have done worse. Remember the real estate agent? Knew next to nothing about hockey and spent half the night trying to sell me a house. And _then_ had the nerve to blame my lack of interest in that overpriced monstrosity on being ‘abnormally cozy’ at your place. As if I should feel bad about having some degree of taste.”

“Geno’s not into real estate,” Mario said, and Sid could make out his grin in the glow of the street lights as they headed toward 279 and the Fort Duquesne Bridge toward Sewickley. “At least, not the kind that involves selling you a house. And we had an interesting conversation about hockey — the Russian Five, Lokomotiv Yaroslavl. He knows his stuff.”

“That’s a plus. It should make the small-talk easy enough, at least,” Sid said before falling quiet to let Mario focus on driving for a few minutes as traffic picked up.

∞ ∞ ∞

Sid swung through the main parking lot and pulled alongside Geno’s car. It wasn’t hard to spot, in the way that it quietly reeked of money and was the only vehicle in the lot aside from the UPMC van that always overnighted at the far end of the space.

He hit the button to roll down his window and waited as Geno followed suit.

“Hey,” Sid said. “How’s it going?” 

“Pretty good, Sid,” Geno grinned. “I’m about to play hockey with best player in world. Well, beside me.”

“Oh, so you’re that good at hockey, eh?” Sid couldn’t help but laugh, his media smile easily giving way to something more real. “You gonna prove it?”

“Gonna try,” Geno said, clearly enjoying himself but also not backing down a bit.

“OK, then,” Sid said. “If you follow me around to the private lot, we can get inside and see if you can back up those big words.”

It wasn’t long before the chip in the parking pass on Sid’s dashboard had them through the security gate. Sid parked in his usual spot and waited as Geno unfolded himself from his own car and then pulled his sticks from the interior and a gear bag and skates from his trunk.

“You came prepared,” Sid said, not bothering to hide how impressed he was by that. The once-a-year fundraiser meant he had done these auctions fewer than a dozen times, but it wasn’t uncommon for a winning bidder to turn up to their “ice time” totally unprepared to skate. “Do you really play? On a rec league or something like that?”

“Not as much as would like,” Geno said, hefting his bag onto his shoulder and following Sid toward the building. “Used to play in Russia, think maybe I go pro. It not work out. But I’m still love, still skate when can.”

A punch of a key fob on Sid’s keyring got Sid and Geno into the practice facility and, after Sid gave Geno an abbreviated tour of the space — mainly the team’s areas that were off-limits to the general public — they made their way to the locker room and changed from their street clothes into hockey gear. 

Sid had had a lifetime of following locker room etiquette and keeping his eyes “up,” but he couldn’t help taking in the view offered when Geno stripped off his jeans and momentarily was left standing in a pair of compression shorts and a long-sleeve shirt that fit him like a second skin.

Sid had appreciated how attractive Geno had looked in a three-piece suit the night before, but now he was rethinking that. The suit jacket clearly had masked one of the best asses Sid had ever seen on someone not in the NHL and, well, hiding that should be criminal. And those compression shorts? Possibly also a crime, because the way they hugged every line, dip and curve of Geno’s anatomy was bordering on obscene. 

Geno also seemed to understand locker room etiquette and didn’t appear to be stealing glances at Sid — both oddly comforting and oddly disconcerting — so maybe he hadn’t noticed Sid checking him out. Mario meant it when he said the auction had absolutely nothing to do with sexual favors. But Sid would have to be dead — and he definitely was not — not to consider the possibilities when presented with an attractive, single man who liked him at least well enough to win a charity auction for him. That he had enough of his own money and accomplishments not to need any of Sid’s also was a plus.

Still, wherever this evening led, Sid was going to make sure they played hockey first and got the auction obligation out of the way, to be sure there was no confusion about what exactly Geno’s money had bought. 

Besides, after his comment in the parking lot, Sid wanted to know just how good Geno actually was on the ice.

His curiosity was even more piqued when he realized Geno had brought a jersey with Cyrillic letters and the number “11” on it. Outside of maybe bringing their own skates, few bidders ever turned up with their own gear — Dana always had them covered, setting out a range of equipment in a variety of sizes — and any jerseys that made an appearance usually were Pens jerseys with Sid’s name on the back. 

Sid pointed out that Dana had left Geno both a Pens practice jersey and a Pens jersey with “Malkin” across the shoulders and the number “71” full of autographs from what looked to be the entire team. Sid added a signed jersey of his own to the mix before Geno tucked his Russian jersey back in his bag and slipped the Pens practice jersey over his head. 

“Ready to hit the ice?” Sid asked, holding up his gloved hand for a fist bump.

“Of course,” Geno said with a smug grin, raising his own gloved hand to complete the fist bump. “Gotta show you how it done.”

“Of course you do,” Sid laughed, shaking his head in a show of incredulousness as he led Geno toward the practice rink closest to the locker room. That kind of comment from most people would have had Sid bristling at the arrogance. But arrogance looked really good on Geno and he said it with such light-hearted teasing that Sid couldn’t help but be charmed instead of offended. 

Stepping onto the ice, they took a few easy laps around the rink to get their legs under them before pausing to stretch. Sid was grateful Geno appeared totally immersed in his own warm-up and maybe didn’t notice Sid staring again — his jaw dropping mentally if not actually as Geno lay on his back and raised his legs, scissoring them a few times before casually folding himself in half, skates up near his ears.

Feeling himself flush, Sid kicked an ankle up on the boards and bent himself nose-to-knee so he’d have an excuse to hide his face for a moment. He thought he had broken himself of the blushing thing. At least, it'd been a long time since a near stranger had inspired it in him. But seeing Geno so easily bend and flex and just _exist_ did all sorts of things for Sid — including making him a bit uncomfortable in his jock.

Then Geno was up and they were off, playing keep away with the pucks and firing them at whichever net was closest in the moment. 

Sid shot one from one knee and batted in one or two others amid some more standard shots on goal. Geno soon demonstrated that he really was no slouch on the ice — Sid was getting more and more curious about why, exactly, Geno wasn’t in the NHL — and what Sid had expected to be about as non-competitive as hockey ever got for him soon became one of Sid’s more intense, however casual, one-on-one hockey sessions.

The spin-o-rama, when it came, was so pretty that Sid couldn't help but fling himself at Geno for a celly, even if Geno technically had just scored against him. Sid was becoming more and more certain that he would be happy for Geno to score off the ice, too, if Geno was interested.

And that was the thing. Aside from actually joining the auction and the one remark he made as he accepted his first sangria the night before, Geno had given no indication that he might be interested in anything more than a night of hockey with the captain of his favorite team. He clearly loved hockey. And Sid still wasn’t entirely sure his comment the night before _wasn’t_ directed at the sangria.

“That was fucking beautiful,” Sid said, his voice echoing and far too loud without the need to be heard over the roar of a crowd as he slammed into Geno. “Fucking beautiful.” 

“I’m told you,” Geno gloated as he wrapped his arms around Sid, the smile on his face growing even wider. “I’m best.” 

Sid couldn’t not giggle at that, burying his face in Geno’s shoulder as he did, the thought flickering through the back of his mind that he fit so nicely in that spot. He made himself pull away — there was a fine line between “justified celly” and “awkward hug” — and tap at Geno’s calf with his stick before he skated to the net to retrieve the puck.

They casually passed the puck back and forth a few more times before Sid made a break for it and took off for the other end of the ice. He had a split second’s head start before Geno caught on and gave chase.

“Cheat,” Geno cried in mock outrage when Sid fired at the empty net and raised his arms to signal a good goal as he swept around the back of the net near the boards and turned. They were both laughing by the time Geno caught up to Sid, momentum driving Geno into him and pinning Sid against the boards with Sid’s shoulders touching the plexiglas and Geno’s hands — stick still dangling from one of them — on either side of his head.

Sid found himself suddenly breathless in a way that had nothing to do with his skating or the mild hit, and by the time he made eye contact with Geno, the laughter had died on his lips.

It took him a moment to realize Geno wasn’t laughing anymore, either. Instead, he looked as stunned as Sid felt.

“Now I’m know why D-men say can’t take eyes off you,” Geno finally said into the silence, his words a bit breathless as he neither broke eye contact nor pulled away from where the long line of him pressed into Sid.

Sid licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry in a way that had nothing to do with the workout they had been getting, and was gratified to see Geno shift his gaze, eyes intent on the flick of Sid’s tongue.

“Um,” Sid said, his mind supplying a helpful/not helpful stream of mental images of other things he could be licking, including the sweaty, vulnerable strip of skin between the collar of Geno’s jersey and that spot just under the hinge of his jaw. But he shouldn’t even be thinking about that right now. “It’s probably, um … we should go.”

“Oh,” Geno said, abruptly pushing away from the boards until there was a stick’s length of distance between them that Sid just as abruptly hated. “Yes, should go. Probably late. Probably already take up too much of your time.”

“Of course not,” Sid said, both not wanting to offend a generous supporter of Mario’s foundation and not wanting to give Geno any impression other than that Sid had been thoroughly enjoying his company all evening. “But it is getting late and we still need to get cleaned up.”

“Sure, sure,” Geno agreed, giving Sid another long, considering look and a small smile before turning and beginning to corral loose pucks and shoot them toward the boards by the bench.

Sid skated to the other end of the rink and began doing the same, until they met near center ice.

By then, the momentary awkwardness seemed to have passed and they fell back into gentle chirping as they used their sticks and skates to nudge the pucks into an ever smaller circle before scooping them into a bucket.

Sid couldn’t resist showing off just a bit, twisting his blade to get a puck on his stick before flipping it into the container. Well, _toward_ the container. Once Geno realized what he was doing, he made it his mission to block as many of the pucks as he could, which quickly escalated the chirping and Sid’s competitive drive.

All in all, it was another 20 minutes before they made it off the ice and into the showers, Sid carefully minding locker room etiquette this time and keeping his eyes to himself. Looking _before_ they had played hockey together simply told Sid that Geno had a nice body. Having shared ice time with him, looking felt more invasive. Sid now knew Geno’s personality — smug self-confidence and all — and knew it worked for him as much as Geno’s body did.

And while he thought he had read interest in Geno’s gaze as they had been sandwiched against the boards earlier, it would be inappropriate — not to mention embarrassing, if he was wrong — to make a move when they were both naked and sweaty in that liminal space occupied by locker room showers.

Geno also seemed focused on simply getting clean, and it was only a matter of minutes before they were both out of the showers and dressed, their sweat-damp gear in a hamper for Dana’s crew.

“I’ll have Dana wash your practice jersey and set it aside,” Sid said as they walked out of the building, Sid turning to make sure the door had latched and locked behind them as Geno swore and tugged his coat collar more firmly against the back of his neck. “We’ll find a way to get it to you so you can keep it or whatever.” 

“Thanks,” Geno said as he gave an exaggerated shake. “Not necessary, if too much trouble. — Why Pittsburgh so cold? Ridiculous. — It’s like, already been amazing night, you know. Don’t have to go to more trouble for get practice jersey to me.”

“It’s cold because it’s February,” Sid pointed out, leaning against the side of his SUV as Geno stored his gear bag in his trunk and opened his passenger door to carefully situate his sticks so they’d fit in the confines of his sports car. He clearly had practice at that. “February is cold in a lot of places. And the jersey’s no trouble. Tonight was really fun. I had a great time.”

“I’m bet you say to everyone who gives Mario lots of money to hang out with you,” Geno said, clearly teasing as he straightened and closed his car door. He then took the few steps necessary to mirror Sid, though the differences in their cars’ height and design meant Geno was sitting more than leaning.

“You’d be surprised,” Sid laughed. “I try to be polite, but some of them don’t make it easy. You make it easy. It’s not even a matter of being polite, just honest. Really, I had a good time.”

“Me, too, Sid,” Geno said, bumping his knee against the side of Sid’s leg.

“Maybe we can do this again sometime,” Sid said.

“There’s always next year,” Geno said, adjusting the scarf around his neck — the scarf that so annoyingly hid that tantalizing strip of skin that had caught Sid’s eye on the ice — and burrowing deeper into his coat. “I’m save my pennies, hope I can afford.”

Sid let out a gentle snort at that.

“Of course, save up,” Sid said seriously, trying to keep a straight face in light of knowing that Geno’s net worth made Sid’s high-end NHL salary seem like change for the vending machine. “Or, you could just give me your number and I could call you sometime.”

“You sure?” Geno asked, his eyes wide and breath visible in the night air. “Wouldn’t want to impose. I’m read auction contract. Know you already meet obligation — more than — with tonight’s skate.” 

“Then you should know that I’m not doing it out of any sense of obligation when I ask you if I can kiss you,” Sid said. He ducked his head for a moment before glancing up at Geno from under his eyelashes and holding his gaze. The heat he saw flash in Geno’s eyes took the edge off of the chill in the night air before the spark faded just as quickly.

“Sid,” Geno started, and it sounded like an apology. Sid knew what that tone meant.

“Never mind,” he said before Geno could finish the sentence. He pulled away from his SUV and straightened to his full height as he hurried through his words. “It was just a thought. It’s chilly out and I should let you get going. Just … the NDA still applies. You can’t tell anybody Sidney Crosby hit on you. You know that, right?”

“Sid,” Geno interrupted, insistently enough to make Sid shut up and press his lips closed in merciful silence. “I’m not hesitate because don’t want kiss. Who not want to kiss that mouth? Just … know what you say, but want be sure you want, not feel like I’m expect because I’m pay.”

“Oh, no, of course not,” Sid said, relief flooding through him even as he raised his chin, jaw set, and made sure his voice had that tone that made people listen when he talked hockey. “I would never … there’s ... I’m pretty sure there’s not enough money in the world for that.” 

“So offer to get together sometime, offer for kiss?” Geno asked, pulling a hand out of his pocket and reaching out to carefully take one of Sid’s hands in his own.

“They are separate offers, and neither was made out of obligation,” Sid said, his breath catching at the way Geno’s hand felt wrapped around his — because apparently neither of them had the sense to wear gloves in Pittsburgh in mid-February and Geno’s hand was cold but it still made Sid feel warm. “I would love to skate with you again sometime, whether you want to kiss me or not. But I’d also really like to kiss you.”

“Then you should do,” Geno said, his voice deeper yet softer as he used their joined hands to reel Sid closer.

Sid put his free hand on Geno’s shoulder to balance and leaned in, licking his lips and feeling the damp warmth of Geno’s breath ghost across them as the space between them narrowed.

Their lips met, the kiss brief, almost chaste, and Geno shivered under Sid’s touch. God, that was so ridiculously good to be so incredibly tame. Sid pulled back and watched as Geno’s eyelashes fluttered against the delicate skin under his eyes before he slowly blinked them open. Geno already looked slightly dazed after that brief contact. It made Sid want to take him apart, to see just how wrecked Geno could look.

Sid kicked lightly at Geno’s shoe, patient as Geno shuffled that foot farther to the side and let his knees fall open so Sid could step into the space between his thighs. Sid untangled their fingers so he had a free hand to grasp at the back of Geno’s neck. It wasn’t easy, between Geno’s scarf and coat collar, but Sid managed to find a spot high on the base of Geno’s skull where his fingers curled into shower-damp hair poking out between coat collar and toque brim.

Sid licked at his lips to moisten them against the cold night air before leaning back in and tilting his head to slot into place as their lips met again, lingered longer. When he pulled back a second time, it was only to inhale before tonguing again at his upper lip and licking against Geno’s lips to simultaneously request access and ease his way.

Geno readily parted his lips for Sid and Sid sunk into the heat of Geno’s mouth, fingers tightening unbidden in Geno’s curls as Geno made a noise deep in his throat — a choked-off gurgle that went straight to Sid’s dick — and let Sid take what he wanted. Geno tightened his grip on Sid’s waist as Sid pressed closer, wishing it wasn’t February and there weren’t multiple layers of clothing between his skin and Geno’s.

The chill of the car’s side panel, muted through the double layer of Sid’s boxers and track pants as his thighs pressed against it, registered just enough in the back of Sid’s mind that he moved his hand from Geno’s shoulder to his waist and tugged. Geno quickly took the hint and scooted forward until their crotches aligned. And Sid really wasn’t that susceptible to the cold, but that heat felt glorious! More important than the warmth was the solid proof of Geno’s desire, clearly evident even through the stiff denim of his jeans.

Sid pressed closer still, chasing Geno’s mouth as they slowly fell back against the hood of Geno’s car. The few inches of height Geno had on Sid seemed to multiply as they reclined, both of them stretching into the kiss to cover the growing distance. Sid was busy trying to figure out if he could get Geno to scoot down any farther without Geno simply landing on the ground when he realized his hand was the only thing between the back of Geno’s head and the frost-covered hood of Geno’s car. He could feel the ice crystals clinging to his knuckles but didn’t really care when there was so much heat radiating between their bodies.

Then Geno slipped his bare hand under the hem of Sid’s hoodie and brushed against Sid’s ribs. 

“Jesus,” Sid yelped as he jerked back and away from Geno’s icy fingers. “Fuck, that’s cold.”

It took Geno a second to process what had happened before he laughed.

“Is February, Sid,” he teased, parroting back Sid’s comment from a few minutes earlier.

“I know,” Sid scowled, not at all angry at Geno but a bit miffed at Mother Nature. “It’s really too cold to be doing this out here.” 

“Could go back inside,” Geno said, sliding his hands between the layers of Sid’s coat and hoodie to rest his hands at Sid’s waist, careful not to touch bare skin this time. “Even ice rink warmer than here.”

“How close is your place?” Sid countered.

“About 10 minutes,” Geno said. “Less, if you willing to drive fast.”

“I’m not interested in trying to explain to a cop that I was speeding because I was in a hurry to get laid,” Sid said with a wry grin. “But, if you’re OK with me following you home, I’m sure I could make it worth your wait to drive the speed limit. And we wouldn’t have to worry about the rink’s janitorial crew showing up unexpectedly at your place.”

∞ ∞ ∞

About 12 minutes later — including time spared for a lingering parting kiss, getting out of the parking lot and onto Interstate 79, getting off of the interstate onto the two-lane road that led to Geno’s house and getting through the gate to Geno’s house and parked in his garage — Sid and Geno had made it as far as Geno’s pleasantly warm kitchen, having hastily shed their shoes and outer layers of winter wear in the adjacent mudroom.

OK, so maybe they hadn’t quite stuck to the speed limit. Traffic was light and there were no cops spotted. It was fine.

More than fine, Sid thought, appreciating the access his fingers had now that Geno had peeled off his toque, coat and scarf and the way Geno looked backed against his kitchen counter. It was almost as appealing as Geno spread out on the hood of his car. Surely the counter would survive if Sid just bent Geno over and ...

Another 3 minutes and neither of them had even remotely cold hands anymore. Geno had warm fingers splayed across Sid’s ribs — no yelping involved — as Sid found Geno’s zipper and tugged. The thick bulge under taut black fabric that immediately filled the gap as the zipper parted left Sid’s mouth watering.

Sid looked up at Geno, who was looking down at him with dark, hooded eyes, before returning his gaze to Geno’s crotch. Once he was sure he had the zipper down as far as it would go, Sid twisted his wrist and flattened his palm against the soft cotton of the boxer briefs Geno had donned after his shower. The move pulled a soft noise from Geno. When Sid applied just a bit of pressure and allowed his fingers to curl around Geno’s shaft, the soft noise became a full-fledged groan.

Sid found himself needing to taste that noise and he used his free hand to clasp the back of Geno’s head as he pulled Geno down and surged up into a kiss. Geno simultaneously slid his hands from Sid’s ribs down to his lower back and dragged Sid’s hips forward until his hand was trapped between them.

Sid ground his hips forward, which served to increase the pressure of his hand on Geno’s dick — and on his own.

“Let me …” he gasped against Geno’s lips as he broke the kiss and tried to wriggle his fingers away from where they has morphed from perfectly placed to suddenly unwelcome barrier.

“No,” Geno finally said, reversing his pressure on Sid’s hips and pushing Sid away.

Sid had a split second in which to be confused — was Geno seriously changing his mind about this whole after-ice encounter _now_?! Not that it wouldn’t be fine, but … — before Geno grabbed his hand and tugged as he began walking — stalking, really — toward the next room.

Sid caught the shadow of what appeared to be a couch that easily could have held both of them as they continued in relative darkness through that room and toward a massive staircase spiralling upward.

“Nice house,” Sid said.

“I’m give full tour later,” Geno tossed over his shoulder as he continue toward the stairs and then up them. “Right now, I’m show you my bed. Think you like it.”

Which is how, about 9 minutes after making it to Geno’s house, Sid found himself straddling Geno atop what was possibly the largest bed he had ever seen — and he knew hockey players who had beds custom built to accommodate their height the way he ordered tailored blue jeans to accommodate his own unique proportions.

They took just enough time to pull the marshmallow puff of a comforter to the foot of the bed and Sid tossed a few spare pillows to the floor as Geno bent down to retrieve condoms and lube from a drawer in the bed’s base. Then they both scrambled to remove what clothing they had left at that point and clambered to the center of the mattress in a heated twist of arms and legs. 

By the time they were settled, Sid was straddling Geno’s hips and running his hands down Geno’s chest as Geno stroked Sid’s thighs and let his fingers sink into the meat at the curve of Sid’s ass. 

“Your ass worst, Sid,” he said, squeezing as if to emphasize his point.

“Are you kidding me?” Sid asked, incredulous and failing to hide his affront. “I’ve been told — even by guys who are straight, thank you very much — that I have an amazing ass.”

“Exactly,” Geno said with a pout, an almost believable pained look crossing his face. “I’m think I’m prepare. Everyone who know hockey know your ass. Best! But I’m see in locker room when we change. And I’m _not_ prepare. Want to skip skate and just … fuck.”

Sid wasn’t quite sure if Geno was using that “fuck” as an explicative or a verb, but both worked for him and he took advantage of his position to grind down so their dicks rubbed together as he pinched lightly at one of Geno’s nipples in mild rebuke. Geno had hidden his interest almost too thoroughly. Sid had been about to chalk the entire evening up to a fun night of hockey before that final hit into the boards had allowed something raw and heated to flash between them and convinced him to take a chance.

“So you _did_ look,” Sid said gleefully, his disbelief replaced by a smug grin as Geno arched into the pinch instead of shrinking away. “I wasn’t sure. Every time I looked at you, you were pretty definitely not looking.”

“Was try not get hard right there in room,” Geno said, a touch of indignation in his tone as he let his eyelids flutter shut for a moment. He inhaled sharply when their dicks slid together as he arched. “Was try to respect rules and not make you think I’m just want sex. Like, you know, definitely want sex. But not why I’m bid, not mad if you not interested.”

“I don’t think we have to worry about either of us not being interested at this point, eh,” Sid said, pointedly looking down to where his dick was starting to ache with need and Geno’s looked equally desperate. “What do you want?” 

“Everything,” Geno said. “But not last long now. Too worked up for so long.”

“Yeah,” Sid agreed, shifting his hips and setting up an easy rhythm as he leaned down toward Geno, his dick throbbing as it brushed against Geno’s and slid up Geno’s abdomen. “I feel like I’ve been at least halfway hard all night. I’m not sure I could hold off long enough to fuck you properly. And I’m fine with switching, but I have a game tomorrow. I can’t risk that tonight.”

“Maybe just … hands?” Geno asked, his voice stuttering and his eyes rolling back as the head of Sid’s dick caught under the cap of his own.

“Hands are good,” Sid agreed, mouthing along Geno’s clavicle and up the line of his neck until their lips met. “Hands are real good.”

Sid then began inching his way lower, wriggling his hips to make room between Geno’s muscular — but surprisingly skinny — legs. As Geno parted his thighs to accommodate the width of Sid’s shoulders, Sid ran a finger lightly down Geno’s cock and between his balls before tracing it lightly over the soft skin behind them.

Geno’s reaction was electric and Sid’s gaze shot immediately to Geno’s face.

“You did say hands were OK, right? We can do something else if you don’t want me to finger you?” 

“Thought you mean handjobs.” Geno huffed a bit breathlessly. “But this ...” — He waved a hand magnanimously in Sid’s direction. — “This good, too.” 

“So, can I?” Sid asked, even as he reached for the lube and squirted some on his fingers.

Geno didn’t seem to require clarification, quickly grunting out an affirmative. 

Sid brushed his knuckles along Geno’s inner thigh and hid his satisfaction by concentrating on teasing that little bit of flesh behind Geno’s balls with a firmer stroke of his thumb. Geno shivered and spread his long legs even wider, bending one at the knee.

That was all Sid needed before he pushed one wet finger between Geno’s glutes, pressed at his hole and carefully slipped in, not trying to work him open so much as simply seeking out that spongy little spot that would make Geno light up.

Geno’s dick twitched in erratic rhythm with the pace Sid set as he steadily slid his finger in and slowly dragged it out. Grinning at the intimate little dance, Sid added a second finger, pushing and twisting until he grazed Geno’s prostate. When it startled a curse and loud groan from Geno, Sid worked the spot ruthlessly, reaching up to wrap his other hand around Geno’s cock.

“Sid! Gonna …” 

“Fuck. … Yeah. Do it, Geno. Come on.” Sid looked up from where he had been watching his fingers do their job to instead watch Geno tip over the edge. Geno’s body arched and his eyes scrunched shut, his mouth falling lax as he came soundlessly. It was possibly not the most attractive sex face, but Sid found himself rather charmed by the sight.

When the tension finally left Geno’s body and he sagged back to the mattress, Sid carefully eased his fingers out of Geno’s body before the direct stimulation could become too much.

With Geno taken care of, Sid’s own need suddenly seemed more urgent. He pulled himself to his knees and wrapped his lube-coated hand around his own dick, rapidly giving himself the few strokes needed to add his come to that already pooled on Geno’s stomach.

When he looked up again, it was to find Geno smiling at him fondly. 

With a soft “Fuck” and a soft grin, Sid collapsed in a heap at Geno’s side, carefully avoiding the mess they had made of Geno’s stomach and chest. He nestled his head into the dip of Geno’s shoulder and left one leg thrown over Geno’s thighs, sated and simply trying to catch his breath. 

“Sorry that was so quick and maybe not what you had in mind when we left the rink,” Sid finally said, twisting his head just enough to press a kiss to Geno’s clavicle. “I’ll do better next time, plan better, take my time.”

“You don’t need apologize for amazing sex, Sid,” Geno said on a huff of a laugh. “It was … amazing. You feel, like, so good. Make me feel good.”

“Thank you,” Sid said, tracing a fingertip along a relatively clean patch of skin on Geno’s abdomen. “It _was_ pretty incredible. _You_ were incredible. But I can do better, if you’re interested.”

“It not hockey,” Geno said, the grin evident in his voice. “Not expect be all-star every time. But … yes, if you want practice, I’m happy to help.”

“You’ll help me run drills until I perfect sex, eh?” Sid said, a giggle escaping despite the energy it required in his relaxed state. 

“Anything I’m can do to help,” Geno said, brushing a kiss to the top of Sid’s head. “Anytime you want to practice.”

“Practice does make perfect,” Sid said. “Um, what are you doing Sunday? I have a game, but it’s a 12:30 start. We’d have all evening to work on our stick handling.” 

“And maybe you work on drive _hard_ to the net, get puck in _deep_ , so deep,” Geno said, succeeding in conveying all of the over-the-top innuendo he presumably intended. Not that it stopped him from apparently waggling his eyebrows so hard that Sid could feel the muscles in Geno’s shoulder flex under his cheek.

Geno was clearly ridiculous — and Sid felt the need to kiss him for it, so he did, raising his head and twisting just enough to make it work. Sid wasn’t ready to claim love at first orgasm but there was no denying that Geno’s _everything_ worked for him, perhaps especially his absolute ridiculousness.

Still ...

“I hate to be _that guy_ , but I should go,” Sid said reluctantly when he finally pulled back from the kiss to come up for air. He _did_ need to go, but he couldn’t deny he was very comfortable where he was. The idea of venturing back out into the cold held next to no appeal, especially when faced with Geno and an admittedly spectacular bed as the alternative. “I do have a game tomorrow.”

“Stay,” Geno said, stroking a thumb along Sid’s shoulder. “I’m set alarm. You get up whatever time you need.” 

“I don’t want to impose,” Sid said. “My game-day routine can be a bit much for people who aren’t used to it.”

“Stay,” Geno repeated. “If need to go first thing in morning, then fine. But want you here with me tonight. Is, like, perfect ending to best night.”

“It was a pretty great night, wasn’t it?” Sid asked drowsily, content in a way that felt like all was right with the world, even if he was about to tweak his game-day routine before it ever started. “Thank you.”

“For what, Sid?” Geno responded softly.

“For bidding,” Sid said in a similar tone, rubbing his cheek on Geno’s shoulder and settling in just that bit more. “For giving me a chance to get to know you. For not being a creep or too weirded out by hanging out with a “celebrity” to let it just be fun. For wanting to do this again, for wanting me to _stay_.”

“You’re welcome, Sid,” Geno said, kissing the top of Sid’s head. “For all of it. That mean you do it — you stay?” 

“Yeah,” Sid murmured as he went slack against Geno’s side, the world slowly fading as he drifted toward sleep. “I’ll stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was a great prompt, Six, and I knew it would be the one I wrote as soon as I read it. (Not to say that the finished product is anything like what I was thinking when I started. But Sid and Geno are nothing if not determined and they quickly told me how _they_ expected things to go, regardless of _my_ opinions on the matter. And that was before Mother Nature and Engelbert Humperdinck got involved!) I hope I did your prompt justice.


End file.
